


Where There's Smoke

by trinityofone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-31
Updated: 2009-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:22:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel used to be on constant guard against sin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where There's Smoke

Castiel’s hands curl in on themselves as he strikes the flint, the silver lighter cupped expertly against his palm. He bends his head toward the flame, and Dean can’t look away from the quiet curve of his eyelashes as he waits for the tip of the cigarette held gently between Cas’ lips to catch fire. The gold spark fades to orange, and then the lighter clicks shut, disappears back into the angel’s trench coat along with the packet of Silk Cuts. Castiel takes a drag, then looks up at him, the smoke already curling around his head like a muddy halo.

Dean still hasn’t finished processing his relief that Cas is okay, that he got out of Chuck’s house without becoming a very special episode of _When Archangels Attack_. That Dean didn’t send one of his last few allies—one of the increasingly tiny group of people he gives a damn about—to his death. That was almost a week ago now, yet every time Dean catches sight of Castiel—looking over a book with Bobby or talking with Sam or standing out in the yard, keeping watch—he feels a new jolt of…of gratitude. If he ever does meet the big guy (who may not be) upstairs, Dean’ll thank Him for this—after he’s chewed Him out for just about everything else.

But the point is, Dean still hasn’t gotten over Cas being here and just being _Cas_ —a presence that’s steady and calming, if maybe a little proper, a little overly stiff. So he’s not really sure what to do now that the angel has apparently decided he’s the Marlboro Man.

“I’d say, ‘those things’ll kill you,’ but…” Yeah, Dean’s not really sure where he’s going with that.

Castiel’s mouth curves into just a hint of a smile around his cigarette. He takes it out, exhaling smoothly. His fingers look long and graceful where they grip the end.

“Jimmy Novak is a man of few vices,” he explains calmly. “But since the nature of our arrangement has recently…changed, I have agreed to indulge some of them.” He takes another slow drag, his eyelashes fluttering closed. “From time to time,” he adds, a particular roughness in his voice, different from his usual gravely tone.

Dean’s own throat feels suddenly dry, like he badly needs to swallow. “Very generous of you,” he croaks. The sarcasm he was aiming for doesn’t really come across.

“I used to be of the opinion that one must be ever-vigilant, on constant guard against sin,” Castiel says. The ash from the end of his cigarette vanishes in mid-air, leaving Bobby’s scrubby grass unmolested. “But I think perhaps that there are certain…indulgences,” his eyes flicker to Dean’s and lock there, “that are acceptable to allow.”

“Acceptable,” echoes Dean.

Castiel licks his lips, slowly, like he is carefully tasting and cataloguing the remembrance of smoke there. “Perhaps essential,” he says. He extends his hand. “Would you like to try?”

Dean had his big smoking rebellion when he was ten years old. He got over it pretty fast: it wasn’t like he needed a pocketful of cancer sticks to feel dangerous and cool, and he didn’t like the idea of not being able to catch (or outrun) something on a hunt because he was too busy hacking up his smoker’s lung. Unlike poor Jimmy Novak, Dean is a man of _many_ vices; smoking’s just never been one of them.

Yet wordlessly he finds himself accepting the proffered cigarette from Castiel’s curled fingers. The now-empty fingertips slide down the back of Dean’s wrist as Cas drops his hand, a shiver of accidental touch, and Dean can’t shake the angel’s steady gaze. The end of the cigarette is still damp with Castiel’s spit, bent with the gentle imprint of his lips, but still Dean raises it to his mouth, wraps his own lips around it, and sucks deeply, lets it all come rushing in.

He thinks he likes the taste.


End file.
